This is a fictional story of two gentlemen who have no idea of space and time and probably never will.
They lost track of space and time. Nothing was real. They arrived at 11 p.m.
“It’s 11:19, but it feels like we’ve been here for two hours,” said the tall one sitting on the left who resembled a extra-long toothpick and had hair like velcro.
“Fuck. You’re right. Losing track of time can sometimes mean alien abduction,” said the short one sitting on the right who looked like a teapot and was bald.
“Yeah. Alien abduction. People who’ve been abducted claim to have miraculously lost track of large chunks of time, whether time slowed down or sped up. You see it all the time on the television.”
They took some time to ponder this thought, then both arrived, inaudibly, at the conclusion that they were certainly abducted by aliens and that it was only a matter of time until they were stuffed full of probes and marked with some sort of extra-terrestrial tracking devices. They both felt sorry, sure that a life lived on a flying saucer was one filled with discomfort and boredom, but they were more sorry at the fact that they would never again eat peanut butter ice cream, which was, according to them, the best kind of ice cream.
“Do you remember driving here?” the tall one blurted.
“Of course I do,” the short one responded.
“What was it like?”
The short one rubbed his bare head, thinking of the best way to describe it and hoping like hell that the aliens could cure his baldness.
“It felt like I was driving upside down,” said baldy. “It was unbelievable. At first, I thought I was driving vertically, like up a wall. But then we turned completely over. And the road began to move. Like a cement treadmill turning beneath us. Like we were going nowhere, making no progress.”
Velco-head was baffled.
“How did you drive? Did you know where you were going?”
“I’m not sure, but it worked. And I hadn’t a damn clue. But we’re here now, aren’t we?”
Their destination was a park bench placed slightly to the right of a set of six, wide concrete stairs. The worn wooden bench – peppered with white fodder from the intestinal tracts of inconsiderate geese – overlooked a river that ran through town. Upon realizing it was a miracle that they had survived both alien abduction and hallucinogenic vehicle operation, they looked each other in the eyes as if to say “Nicely done.”
All matters of space and time eluded them.
“The lights on the river. They’re unbelievable. Do you see that? Do you see those lights?” asked the teapot.
“Yes, I see them.” replied the toothpick.
“Yes, I do.”
“Picture this;” said baldy. “The lights in the water aren’t reflections of the lights up here, but they are being projected upward from some world beneath the surface.”
“Yes, a world beneath the water. Can’t you see it? Huge pillars of light beaming up from below. It’s magnificent.”
The tall one examined the water like it was an impossible math equation.
“I see it now. Yes. They’re incredible. Massive. Like neon lights as big around as tree trunks. Or fluorescent fixtures inflated to ten times their size. And there are people! Can you see them?”
“I wonder what they’re doing down there? Do they have jobs and families? Do they watch the television. Do they like peanut butter ice cream? Can they see us?”
“Don’t be silly. Of course they can’t see us. They’re underwater.”
The tall one nodded his head as if this made perfect sense. He stared at the water and at the lights that constituted an entirely new world with people who were oblivious to their dry land counterparts.
Space and time, it seemed, were buried beneath the water with the ignorant race of river people.
“It’s 12:11,” said the tall one.
“I said it’s…”
“Yes, yes I heard you. But I swear we’ve been sitting here for two minutes since we last checked the time.”
“It does feel that way.”
“Dammit. Do you know what that means?”
Sadly, he did.
“My God,” said the toothpick. “Do you see that? There. On top of that building. Do you see it?
“No,” answered the teapot. “What is it?”
“It’s just there. Poking its head over the roof. Do you see?”
The short one scanned the sky. All of a sudden, he found the figure.
“Jesus Harold Christ. Yes. I see it.”
Perched on top of a church across the river, looking directly at them, was a small, round-headed alien.
“What do we do?” the tall one asked.
“Just be still. Maybe it won’t see us.”
“Of course it’ll see us. It’s a damned martian. They have eyes like a piranha’s. They can see the energy radiating from our souls.”
“That just isn’t true,” scoffed baldy.
“How do you know?”
He rubbed his bald head in thought. “Good point.”
As they sat there, oblivious to space and time, they locked their eyes on their little green companion. He didn’t move, which they thought was peculiar. The tall one thought for a second that maybe the alien wasn’t an alien at all. Maybe he was seeing things. Maybe the martian was only part of the church, a small, metal appendage placed on the roof by a construction worker or a well-meaning friar.
After thinking for a while, he laughed, shook his head, and thought to himself that it absolutely must be an alien.
Because the only thing that aliens love more than sitting on the roofs of churches was abducting unknowing drunkards and forcing them to lose track of space and time.
It was 2:37 a.m.